


Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-14
Updated: 2007-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meditation on the seven names of Gondolin, on Glorfindel and Ecthelion, their friendship and their loyalty to a kingdom, whose only fate is stagnation.<br/>(Title nicked from Shakespeare, Sonnet 55, by the way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Karanguni

 

 

The peaks of the Echoriath loomed over the hills, and yet there lay no shadow on the valley below. The City of Singing Stone was resplendent with laughter, ringing as silver, and with music, yellowing horns reverberating from the mountainside.

For half a century, hardly long for the Noldor, nonetheless terrible because they measured time at all, it had been built in secrecy, alive only with echoes of pickaxe, hammer, saw. That noise had come to an end, to be replaced by life.

"The groans of the Grinding Ice will never be heard here," Glorfindel said to one of his fellow captains, the warriors marching with even tread.

"Gondolin is meant for harmony, Ecthelion. You should compose a tune in its honour: a melody for your flute, nothing for drum and fife."

His friend smiled sadly, sadly as ever since Manwë's Curse.

"May it last if - _while_ it can."

***

The seven gates were hewn or forged from various materials, from wood to steel; all the houses were decorated with pillars of oak and panels of linden, with golden frames and copper candlesticks. They never forgot, however, that Gondobar was the City of Stone.

Ecthelion and he might be soldiers, not craftsmen, Glorfindel mused, but they harboured an almost dwarvish fondness for the rocks which sheltered them. In the layers of soil, they found the history of Manwë's Realm. While he recognized the Great Music solidified in stone, discord marring the earth, the other elf discovered the workings of nature, wind and water wearing out granite with the years.

Glorfindel laughed at those notions. There was no scratch on the marble of their realm, no stain. From its polished surface, eternity smiled back at him. What Ecthelion saw in these mirrors, he never said, nor did Glorfindel dare to ask.

***

The rocks were neither desolate nor barren. The people who lived amid the stones were full of mirth, their number increasing, albeit as decorously as was seemly for this city.

Life in Gondothlimbar was well-ordered and restrained: The ladies handled warp and weft without haste; they kneaded waybread with unhurried hands, fingers hushed with flakes of flour. The smiths, too, hammered away at their tools slowly, sparks splashing like drops of dew.

The troops went through the drill, preparing for a battle they wished would never come. Glorfindel felt their lassitude pulling his sword to the ground. Only his sparring sessions with Ecthelion carried him through the routine; what he truly enjoyed was strolling through the streets, searching for small signs of novelty among the same sights.

"Maybe," he said one day, Ecthelion regarding him fondly, "I do not always miss the never-changing splendour of the Trees." - "Neither do I."

***

Wars were ravaging Beleriand, and the Tower of Watch was buzzing with rumours. King Turgon's captains knew it was time to gather their soldiers - 10, 000 warriors would come to Maedhros's aid. The House of the Golden Flower was decked out in guilt armour, the sun beaming from every shield, while the House of the Fountain had put on crystal panoplies, pipes playing up for battle.

"I wonder how many will writhe in pain and lose their souls to Mandos," Ecthelion sighed. "How many muddy cuirasses will lose their lustre? How many suns will set on splintered shields? "

Glorfindel laid a hand on his shoulder, heavy where it was meant to be comforting.

"This could be our chance," he said, "for the greatest change of all - Morgoth's downfall, and our return from exile."

Ecthelion tensed beneath his palm.

" _Do_ you wish to go back? We could go forward instead."

***

The haunting melody was in harmony with the noise of water dripping into the basin. Drop by drop, note by note, it rained from the metal branches, shattering the dark fountain. Tears were streaming down the flutist's face.

Ecthelion's tune told of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad in plaintive cries; the beauty of Ondolinde, the gold and silver of Glingal and Belthil, appeared as faint echoes of older themes. They would never have the original again, Glorfindel could hear in the discordant variations of the Water Music, only imperfect imitations, copies of creation. It was no happy composition, no occasion for merriment, but the music refused to give itself over to mourning. A lighter sound crept into it, subtly modulating the minor key: the sound of --

Ecthelion laid down the instrument as he noticed his friend's footsteps.

"Have you heard the latest news already, Glorfindel? A man has found our city."

***

When change came to Gar Thurion, in its most violent form, it was not Morgoth that fell, but the Hidden Place itself. Gate by gate, stone by stone, victim by victim, the city was crushed under the onslaught, its streets of marble running red with blood.

The gory water of the fountain closed over Ecthelion's charred body. Glorfindel did not look back. Companionship unto the death had not been theirs, and there was no time for dirges among the ruins. He had to lead Tuor's family, for whom his friend had sacrificed his life, to safety - to a future that belonged to man. On and on he went on the steep mountain path, always one step forward, one step further.

Finally, downwards in the Balrog's fiery embrace. There was no place for thought among the pain, no hope for a reunion, only the half-formed idea that even Valinor seemed unreal.

***

The Noldor keep leaving these shores, and Glorfindel could leave with them at last.

Purified, free from rebellion and curse, he returned to Middle-earth, to fulfil the hopes of the Valar. Despite his help, Gil-galad and Elrond lost a battle, long ago, but he did save a harmless halfling, and Sauron was defeated.

And yet, there is a stain of his soul. He has grown too fond of change. He wants to see the years go by, watch empires rise and fall, enjoy everything but bliss and stagnation. In ages to come, the name of Lothengriol will have been forgotten, a curious thing like dried flowers pressed as keepsakes between the pages of a dusty book. The prospect does not pain him as it should. Even the wrath of the Valar does nothing to change his new-found convictions.

His sea-longing is for the river of time now. Ecthelion would understand.

 


End file.
